A Winter's Chill
by flosnowable
Summary: When Sansa returns to Winterfell, she realizes she has lost everyone but one...


There was finally peace for Sansa Stark.

Winterfell had been rebuilt,

but now that the delegations from Kings Landing, from Riverrun and the Vale,

from Dorne and the Stormlands had left, the castle was empty and silent as a tomb.

Even though it was spring now the cold still crept through the halls and a chill

went through the last living Stark.

_It is indeed a tomb. My whole family lies beneath this pile of stone. And what of me, now?_

After discussing all kind of matters of state, after much arguing and debating and shouting,

the newly appointed Warden of the North, Sansa Stark, was allowed some rest.

She made her way down the corridor, lost in thoughts on her way to her chambers.

The queens party had stayed long, too long for the sparse stores of the newly rebuilt keep.

It was a good thing that Sansa was left with but a handful of staff, retainers and knights. And him.

The years hadn't changed him much, she mused, except for his stiff leg and his new found faith in the seven.

Sandor Clegane was not a hound anymore, but he was not yet a man.

She crumpled her nose at the memory of him kneeling before her, bloodied from battle, swearing his fealty to her.

Not to her house or her family or her cause, only to her.

He had looked straight into her eyes and said his vow with such passion that made her shiver.

From then he had never left her side, going where she went, fighting for her and guarding her

but never ever lying to her.

_I will walk 'till the end of the world for you, little bird, and even further if I have to._

Yet he never touched her.

Of course he was following her now, the same way he always did, although his stares had changed.

Ever since they met again it was him who could not bear to look into her face.

_It is because i kissed him_, she thought. _No, that was not me, that was Alayne._

Sansa entered the antechamber to her own room and passed a cot and a creaky little table and a

stool on three legs that were all the home her sworn shield had left.

Of course she had offered him more. She had offered him a lordship, the Dreadfort,

she had offered him gold and riches,

she had offered him her bed and her love, but he turned it all down with a choked up 't_hank you, little bird_'.

A bath had been set up in her room, scalding hot, with steam rising from its surface like mist. Sansa took the pins out of her hair and let her hair fall down before she undid her dress. Last she went to a little table in the corner of her room, with a little basin and a washcloth on it. Looking into the mirror hung above it,

she removed all the powders and colours and scented oils with the washcloth and stood very still in front of her mirror.

She was not Lady Stark anymore, but Sansa, little Sansa Stark, 15 years old and all alone in this giant castle haunted by the ghosts of a past so long gone it could have been one of her stories. She was where she began, a maiden in Winterfell, the Lady of Spring as they called her, but for her there was no spring, no joy in the new found warmth and peace.

She went to the tub and sat down in the water, arms encircling her legs and her head resting on her knees.

_I am dead already . Nobody has noticed yet._

She thought of her father and how Ser Ilyn had ended his life, of her mother and Robb that were slain by those they considered allies, of Bran who gave his life fighting the others and Rickon who was slain by Gregor Clegane.

The tears were rolling now, and she must have been sobbing too loud, because her door opened with a creak

Little bird?

She looked up, eyes swimming from the tears watering her eyes and saw him standing in the doorway without his armour or sword.. He paused and there seemed to be a fight inside of him, but after a few seconds he strode through the room and went to his knees next to her bath.

Little bird? He rasped again, searching her eyes as if there was an answer for his question written there.

Stupid, she thought. As if I ever could give him anything he doesn't already know.

He reached out with his hand, but hesitated and so it hung in the air between them. Sansa reached out and took his giant hand in between hers and let her head rest against his big, calloused hand. It was warm and rougher than she expected but the feel of it reminded her that she was still here.

When she looked up into his eyes there was a fire burning there. Suddenly, she knew.

'You love me, don't you?'

'Yes' ,his voice was harsh but not ungentle.

She held his gaze and there were so many things she wanted to ask him. So many unspoken truths between them, but she felt it completely unnecessary now. She didn't need to know anymore, she knew already, all along. She needed to feel.

His face moved closer, slow, very slow, until the tip of her nose almost touched his and she had to grin at the thought of it and it gave her a spark that moved right through her, until he took her hand and moved it to his mouth and laid a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

Sansa laid her head back, dizziness overcoming her, when he let go of her hand completely and positioned himself on the edge of the tub.

He rummaged through all the little pots, reading their labels with more care and concentration than needed and chose a balm for her head. He started to massage it into her hair, beginning with the ends and moving up until his hands, his war and gentle and strong hands, were on her head, kneading hair and skin alike.

'Why have you never kissed me again?'

'What do you mean?' She could not see his face but heard a gruff edge in his voice.

'In the Eyrie, after you swore your oath to me. I kissed you, but you never kissed me again.'

'I...'

'Yes?'

She had waited long for this, for an answer to the question. _If he wants me, why does he not take me and make me his? _All those weeks of traveling, plenty of opportunities, but after that first kiss Sandor Clegane had put an effort into distancing himself from her. And now he admitted that he loved her...

'You were just a child. You still are. A bloody child and a highborn one at that.'

'I a not. I am a woman flowered'

Sandor cringed at this.' You may be, but you are young and beautiful and should be courting a young prince or a hopeless singer instead of...' He trailed off.

'Instead of what?'

'Me.'

Sansa turned her head to look at him, realizing for the first time that she was naked in front of a grown man and her cheeks flushed.

'I think I have made it perfectly clear that I want you and nobody else.'

Something in his expression made her halt. Something was not right.

'It is not me. It is you. You do not want me?'

He looked towards the floor, mumbling: 'Yes.'

At that, tears welled up in her eyes. ' You do not want me? You said you loved me! You love e but don't want me? That doesn't make sense, hound!'

Sandor looked very sad now as his hand held her chin so she would look him in the eyes.

'I love you. You are the single most gentle, beautiful and honest girl I know, but this is it, you're just a girl yet.'

'Do you mean...'

'I mean that I will not take you tonight, or this week or this month...'

'But when I am older?

'Yes, if you will still want me then.'

'Will you wait for me then? Will you wait until I am a woman grown to wed me?'

'Yes, I will little bird.'

At that , he wrapped her in a towel and lifted her out of the water as if she was weightless.

He carried her to her bed and sat there with her on his lap, feathering light kisses on the top of her head and listening to her spin stories from her memory. It was such a peaceful thing that she believed herself dreaming. But that did not matter.

Sansa felt finally warm again


End file.
